Hidden Danger
by Deana
Summary: Aramis unexpectedly suffers a life-threatening allergic reaction and scares everyone to death.
1. Hidden Danger

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Hidden Danger  
A Musketeer story by Deana  
Thank you Snow-Glory for providing me with the title! :-)

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Aramis groaned when sunlight suddenly filled his room. All night, he'd had a tickle in his throat that had actually made it difficult to breathe without coughing. He'd slept fitfully and woke often, and just when he'd started to doze off again, he'd realized that it was morning. With another groan, he eventually got out of bed and slowly dressed, coughing when the exertion disagreed with him.

Voices suddenly drifted through his window and he realized that he was going to be late for breakfast. He hurried as fast as he could and headed out of his room and down the stairs, trying to suppress the coughing, but not entirely succeeding.

Porthos and Athos watched him as he headed over to their table. "Are you ill?" Athos asked.

Aramis shook his head as he sat down. "No...I just have a tickle in my throat." Even as he said it, he had to stop to cough.

Porthos didn't believe him and put a hand on his forehead. "No fever."

"I feel fine," Aramis told them. "Seriously."

They stared at him as they considered his words, until they were interrupted by Serge with their breakfast. "I 'ave more of those tarts left over from last night," said the cook, setting down their plates. "Wanna finish them off before they go stale?"

Porthos nodded happily and grabbed the extra dish off the cook's tray. "You don't have to ask _me_ twice!"

Serge chuckled and went back into the kitchen.

Porthos deliberately put a tart on Aramis' plate, as if making sure that he ate.

"I'm not sick," said Aramis. "I feel fine." He coughed again after, despite his words.

"Maybe you do _now_ ," said Athos. "But you must be coming down with a cold."

Aramis shrugged as he ate. "I have no other symptoms. No sneezing, no dizzy spells…no _falling_." He said the last part with a slight grin, as they all knew how clumsy Aramis became when he was ill.

"Did you accidentally inhale something that you shouldn't have?" Porthos asked as he shoved a whole tart into his mouth.

Aramis opened his mouth to say no, that he'd coughed all night, but he decided to keep that to himself or they'd only become even more concerned. "Not that I can recall."

"Why don't you go back to your room and rest?" Athos suggested. "Treville would not begrudge you a day off if you are unwell."

Aramis had to cough again before he could answer, and he covered his mouth with a cloth napkin.

"Aramis?" they suddenly heard.

Looking up, they saw Treville coming down the stairs. "I could hear you coughing from my office," he said.

"I feel _fine,_ " Aramis repeated for the third time. "It's just a tickle in my throat."

Treville studied him. He and the other three knew very well the trouble that Aramis got into when he was sick. He had an odd problem that no physician could diagnose that kept him off-balance when ill and made him literally fall down when he sneezed.*

But right now, Aramis wasn't sneezing— _yet_.

"We're training new recruits today," Treville said. "I'd rather you _not_ sneeze and get skewered."

"Hear, hear," said Porthos, eating the last tart.

Aramis couldn't blame the captain for that…after all, Treville had been the one to nearly skewer him after a sneeze had brought him down—literally—while the two of them had been demonstrating a swordfight to new recruits. Even though it sounded absolutely ridiculous, he couldn't change the fact that he was useless when sick. "I'll just sit here then," he said. "Or clean weapons in the armory."

Everyone was relieved.

"Good," said Treville, as if he wasn't the captain who was the one to ultimately make the decision.

As the captain walked away, Porthos suddenly made a face and looked at Aramis. "You know, you're lucky."

"Hmm?" Aramis said, which made him cough again.

Porthos waited until he finished before continuing. "The slightest sound from you, and you get a free day." He looked at Athos. "You think he makes it all up?"

Athos smiled slightly.

"Very funny," said Aramis, coughing again.

Soon, they were lined up as Treville took attendance and issued tasks for the day, but no matter how hard he tried, Aramis couldn't stop coughing. "I'm sorry," he told Treville, after the musketeers broke formation.

Treville shook his head, knowing that it wasn't Aramis' fault. "Tell me the truth; is it your lungs or your throat?" Everyone knew the dangers of a chest illness.

"My throat," Aramis answered. "I swear."

Treville nodded and gestured towards the table. "Go sit down, unless you want to rest in your room?"

"Out here will do," Aramis said. He headed over to the table—coughing along the way—and sat down, watching as Athos and Porthos were each given a recruit to train.

As Aramis sat there, he noticed that his throat felt thick, as if his airway had narrowed. It was harder to draw in air, and he continued to cough.

"That sounds terrible," he suddenly heard.

Turning his head, Aramis saw Serge heading over with a mug.

"Drink this," the cook said. "Tea with honey; it should help."

Aramis smiled and took it, taking a sip. "Mmm," he said. "Thank you."

Serge smiled and walked off.

Aramis drank it quickly, enjoying the heat on his throat. Within a couple of minutes, the cup was empty and he sat it down. He immediately had to cough again, and covered his mouth with the cloth napkin, not wanting to distract the other musketeers from their training.

Sticking the napkin in his sleeve, Aramis tried to take a breath, but to his surprise, it felt as if there wasn't enough room in his throat. He coughed again to try to clear what he assumed was mucus, but it only made it worse, and to his shock, he found that he could hardly breathe. Desperately trying to inhale, he succeeded partly, but it was obvious that something was very wrong.

Quickly, Aramis pushed himself to his feet and tried to call out for help, but the only thing that made it past his lips was a wheeze. He took a step away from the table, but the decrease in oxygen made him dizzy and he fell to the ground.

The musketeers didn't hear anything over the clash of swords until a gunshot suddenly cracked through the air.

Everyone stopped and turned towards the sound.

A thrill of fear filled Porthos when he spotted Aramis lying on the ground. The smoking pistol clutched in his hand that pointed towards the sky fell from his grip as his arm dropped to the dirt. It was then that Porthos realized that Aramis wasn't trying to get up, and had a hand around his throat. The sound of his friend gasping met his ears, and he started to run. "Aramis!" he shouted, throwing himself to his knees beside him.

Aramis continued to gasp, face extremely pale.

Porthos quickly pulled him upright to lay in his arm. "What happened?!" he exclaimed.

Aramis tried to talk, but couldn't. "C-can't…" he whispered. The only other thing that made it past his lips was a wheeze.

"Someone fetch a doctor!" Porthos shouted, panicked.

Treville and Athos knelt, as more musketeers surrounded them.

"He can't breathe!" Porthos exclaimed, holding his friend in a death grip.

"Aramis, are you choking?!" Athos wisely asked.

Aramis shook his head, eyes opened wide as he fought for air.

Treville turned. "Everyone move away!" he shouted, not wanting Aramis to be overwhelmed by the staring. He reached over and pried Aramis' hand away from his throat before placing his own hand on Aramis' chest. "Stop panicking," he said, trying to sound calm. "You're making it harder for yourself. You're breathing, Aramis…even though it's obviously difficult, you're breathing."

He was right; even though it was barely enough to survive, Aramis was getting _some_ air.

Athos reached over and unbuckled Aramis' belts, pulling them all off before untying his blue sash and unbuttoning his jacket, hoping that it would help him breathe better.

Aramis continued to grow paler, and his lips started to take on a bluish hue. He blindly reached out for Athos' hand before his eyes fluttered and his struggle for air grew weaker.

"No, Aramis!" Porthos exclaimed, giving him a shake. "Don't you dare pass out!"

Aramis' eyes reopened and Athos squeezed his hand. "Keep breathing, Aramis!" he commanded. "Do you hear me?"

Aramis looked at him, before his eyes fluttered again. The wheezing, grating sound that emitted from his throat as he fought for air was terrifying.

There was a sudden commotion as the musketeers that had run for a doctor returned and rushed over to the four men on the ground.

"What happened?" the doctor asked as he knelt.

"He was sitting here alone and then I suddenly saw him lying on the ground unable to breathe!" Porthos quickly told him.

"Has he an injury to his chest?"

"No," Athos told him. "But he's been coughing since this morning…he said that it was a tickle in his throat, that it wasn't his lungs."

At those words, the doctor opened his bag and took out a small bottle. "Has he ever had an adverse reaction to something he ate or drank?"

"Lemongrass," said Porthos. "He's told us that he can't have lemongrass."

The doctor poured a small amount from the bottle into a cup before holding it to Aramis' lips. "Drink this, son," he said. "Quickly."

Aramis' eyes fluttered closed again.

The doctor tapped his face, hard. "Stay awake, and drink this!" He deliberately poured some into Aramis' mouth.

Aramis' eyes opened and he immediately choked, losing air that he didn't have.

"Swallow!" said the doctor, trying again. "If you want to live, _swallow_!"

It took two more tries before Aramis managed to do it, after which the doctor put the bottle back into his bag.

They all watched as Aramis continued to gasp.

"It's not working!" Porthos exclaimed. "He needs more!"

"Anymore would be too dangerous," said the doctor. "It will work. Sit him up a little higher."

Porthos obeyed, leaning Aramis sideways against his chest where he remained, still gasping, eyes closed. Less than thirty seconds passed before they suddenly realized that Aramis' breaths were a little fuller.

"That's it, Aramis," said Porthos, unconsciously starting to rock him. "Keep breathin'!"

Aramis gave no reaction to his voice, but before another whole minute had passed, the desperate gasps had subsided into shallow, fast breathing, and the blue tinge to his lips started to lessen.

Athos sighed raggedly, exchanging a look of relief with Treville.

Porthos had his chin resting on his friend's head as he rocked him. He realized that Aramis was shaking…or was it _him_? "Keep breathin', Aramis," he repeated. "Keep breathin'."

Aramis did, leaning unmoving against his friend's chest, his body tense. Even though it was now easier to breathe, it still wasn't _easy._

Once Aramis appeared to be out of danger, the doctor looked at Treville. "He can be moved, now."

Treville stood, putting out a hand to help Porthos rise with Aramis in his arms.

Athos and the doctor stood as well, and they started to walk over to the stairs. Athos found that his legs were wobbly and he felt a little lightheaded; having nearly watched Aramis die from a sudden and unknown cause had badly shaken him. He could only imagine how Porthos felt.

A moment later, they were in Aramis' room, and they quickly pulled off his jacket and boots and reclined him upright in his bed. Porthos sat on the bed gripping his hand, watching worriedly as Aramis continued to breathe with difficulty.

Aramis returned the grip with more strength than he actually had—fueled by understandable fear. His other hand was fisted in his shirt over his chest, and as his breathing eased a little more, he finally reopened his eyes.

Porthos smiled with relief, glancing at Athos on the other side of the bed for a second. "Hey there," he said. "You're all right."

Aramis appeared to try to say something, but he failed.

Athos squeezed his arm. "Rest."

Treville looked at the doctor. "What did you give him?"

"Arsenicum album," he replied.

Treville blinked with shock. "Arsenic?"

The doctor nodded. "It is derived from arsenic, yes. What your musketeer suffered was his throat closing up from ingesting a substance that his body wrongfully considered as being harmful."

"I _never_ put lemongrass in the food," Serge's voice suddenly said.

Turning, they saw him standing inside the door holding Aramis' weapons, which they'd neglected to bring upstairs with them.

"Ever since 'e told me 'e can't 'ave it, years ago," said Serge, putting the weapons down and walking closer.

"But is there any in the kitchen?" Treville asked.

Serge thought for a minute. "I'm not sure. I used to use it before…I thought I threw it all away."

"Have you put anything new in the food?" the doctor asked. "If this is from another cause, then you need to figure it out immediately, or this _will_ happen again and he could die the next time."

Serge, flustered at the thought that he might've accidentally killed Aramis, shook his head. "Nothing new, no, but I made tarts yesterday with honey which I haven't used in a while…and ten minutes before this happened, I gave 'im tea with honey in it."

"And he ate one of the tarts this morning," Athos said. "As well as last night."

"Show me," said Treville motioning for Serge to follow him.

They quickly left the room and headed for the kitchen.

"Where is the honey?" Treville asked, once they entered.

Serge led him over to a large jar on one of the counters and pulled it out, opening the cover and showing it to him.

Treville picked it up and sniffed it, noticing that the scent was a little odd. Putting the jar down, he looked at the shelf above it, and saw a small bottle tipped on its side with the cover off. Picking it up, he turned it around to see what was written on it.

Lemongrass.

When Serge saw the writing, his bad leg buckled and he had to lean on the counter for support.

Treville put the bottle down and quickly grabbed him.

"I almost killed Aramis," Serge exclaimed. "I almost killed Aramis!" He closed his eyes and lowered his head. "God forgive me, I almost _killed_ Aramis!"

"Take it easy," Treville said, even though his own mind was reeling. "It was an accident."

"I almost killed _Aramis_ ," Serge repeated, his eyes filling with tears. "One of my favorites."

Those last words had Treville smile slightly; Aramis' easygoing, friendly nature always made him a favorite of most of the people he met. "Calm down," he said. "Aramis is all right, Serge. For all we know, he'll be back to his usual self tomorrow." He gently helped him over to a chair and sat him down, before fetching him a cup of wine. "I'll go tell the doctor that it was lemongrass. Stay here."

Serge shook his head, tears still leaking from his eyes. "It's my responsibility—"

Treville sighed, before giving him his own handkerchief and shoving the cup into his hand. "Take a few minutes first and get a hold of yourself."

Serge sighed as he wiped his eyes.

"Drink the wine," Treville commanded.

Serge obeyed, before putting the cup down with a *thunk*. He took a deep breath before standing again—his hand shaking as he took the lemongrass bottle from Treville—and they headed back towards Aramis' room.

TBC

*'Looks can be Deceiving': story ID 11709057


	2. Second Chance

The walk back to Aramis' room was spent in silence, and everyone looked at Treville and Serge when they reentered.

With a sigh, Serge handed the bottle to the doctor. "It-it fell over on the shelf, and…poured into the honey."

The doctor didn't know whether to yell at him or try to comfort him. He read the label before nodding. "This and the honey need to be disposed of."

Treville took it from him. "I'll do it myself." With that, he left the room again.

Serge headed over to the bed, looking devastated. When Athos stood to give him his spot, he sat down and reached for Aramis' hand. "I am so, so sorry, son," he said, his voice trembling. "I remember gettin' rid of the lemongrass a long time ago...there must've been another bottle that I didn't realize I still had. Can you ever forgive me?"

Aramis smiled slightly. He looked pale and exhausted and was still breathing too fast, but he managed to say, "Not your fault…accident." His voice was soft and hoarse.

Serge shook his head with a sigh and lowered his eyes to their joined hands, placing his other one on top. "What about the rest of you?" he suddenly asked. "Porthos? Athos? Can _you_ ever forgive me?"

Both of the others were slightly surprised at the question. While they were both shocked and angry that lemongrass had still been in the kitchen, the sight of the elderly, limping Serge cut a pathetic-looking figure—especially when saddened—and it was _never_ easy to be mad at him.

"Yes," said Athos. "As Aramis said, it was an accident."

"If Aramis forgave you, how can we _not_?" said Porthos.

Serge smiled slightly with relief, before sighing again. He looked up to see that Aramis was blinking tiredly. "Go to sleep," he said, patting his hand.

Aramis closed his eyes.

Serge gently let go of his hand and stood, before heading away from the bed.

The doctor took hold of his arm. "I'm leaving you this bottle," he said, giving him the arsenicum album. "The dosage is written on it. If this ever happens again, give it to him immediately. I'll have the apothecary send over a few more bottles…he should always carry it with him, as well as his friends."

Serge nodded, taking the bottle and gripping it like a lifeline. "Thank you." With that, he turned to look at the dozing Aramis one more time before limping out of the room.

The doctor turned towards the bed, and found Athos standing behind him.

"Is there anything that we need to do for Aramis?" the musketeer asked.

The doctor shook his head. "The medicine countered the effects of the lemongrass…it just sometimes takes a while for the victim to get back to normal. He should be fine tomorrow, as long as he continues to rest. The only other treatment is to make him drink a lot of water, to help flush the lemongrass out of his system."

Athos nodded and went back to the bed.

The doctor eventually left, and four more bottles of the medicine arrived less than a half-hour later; one each for Aramis, Athos, Porthos, and Treville.

Aramis slept for most of the day, his breathing still a little labored and wheezy, but as time passed, it continued to improve.

Serge cleaned every part of the kitchen that might've been contaminated by the lemongrass, including throwing out other things that were below it or beside it on the shelf. The sense of relief that he felt when he finished was nearly overwhelming, and he sat down with another glass of wine to steady his still-frazzled nerves.

Lemongrass had always been something that he liked to add to certain recipes because of its resemblance to a lemon flavor, and he remembered the day that Aramis had joined the musketeers and told him that it was dangerous for him to eat it. He'd immediately thrown it away, and to think that all these years there had been another bottle...a hidden danger.

With a sigh, Serge stood to prepare supper for the garrison, and made a vow to himself that he would never touch lemongrass again.

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Aramis ate soup that night; his throat still felt tight as the swelling receded slowly...likely because of the time it had taken for the doctor to arrive and administer the medicine. Liquids went down much easier.

Athos and Porthos refused to leave his side, and Aramis wasn't surprised. He could see how shaken they were; it was visible to him even on Athos' face. He watched as they ate their own food, sitting on either side of the bed, facing him. Rather, he watched as they _tried_ to eat.

"I'm sorry."

Athos and Porthos looked at him, both of them frowning. "For what?" Athos asked.

"Frightening you," Aramis told them. "Watching me unable to breathe..." He shook his head. "It must've been terrifying."

Porthos lowered his head. "I thought you were about to die in my arms, Aramis! If the doctor hadn't arrived in time, you _would've_!"

Aramis put one hand on his arm and his other hand on Athos'. "I'm all right, now."

Porthos sighed, before looking at him again. "What about you? We were scared to death, how can _you_ be calm now?"

Aramis tightened the grips on their arms. "That whole time that I couldn't breathe...I felt you holding me, Porthos, refusing to let go...and I felt your strong grip on my hand, Athos...that's what lent me the strength to remain calmer than I would've otherwise been."

Porthos felt tears sting his eyes and he had to forcefully blink them back.

Athos smiled slightly. "We're glad to have provided you whatever comfort we could. There's just one thing you can do in return."

"Yes?"

"Never frighten us like that again?"

Aramis smiled slightly. "Believe me, I have no intention of it...not a very heroic way to die, is it?" He looked at Porthos, who was obviously still struggling with his emotions. Tightening his grip, he shook his friend's arm to get his attention.

Porthos looked up at him, before suddenly leaning forward and grabbing him in a gentle hug.

Aramis gladly hugged him back.

Porthos didn't let go. "Have to feel you breathin'," he said, raggedly. "To...to chase away the memory..."

Aramis closed his eyes at that, unable to imagine the horror that Porthos had felt as he'd held him in his arms while he'd been unable to breathe. "I'm sorry," he said again.

"Stop apologizin'," Porthos told him.

Aramis obeyed, resting against his friend quietly. He tried to breathe as deeply as he could, letting Porthos see it, hear it, and feel it.

Athos watched silently.

Aramis didn't move, giving Porthos the time that he needed. He could feel his friend's heart beating against his ear, eventually slowing as Porthos calmed down. It was soothing, and the tired Aramis dozed off.

When Aramis started to go limp, Porthos just held him tighter. He looked over at Athos with a sigh.

"He's fine, Porthos," Athos whispered.

"But he _wasn't_ ," Porthos whispered back. "He was _dying._ "

Athos nodded, having no reply.

Aramis slept well that night, considering that his breathing remained noisy. He woke once while Athos was watching over him and drank some water, keeping quiet while Porthos slept in a chair.

" _Keep breathin', Aramis!" Porthos exclaimed, holding his friend tightly._

 _Aramis tried, but eventually, he couldn't get any air past his throat. Looking up at Porthos, Aramis fisted a hand in his doublet, wishing that he had another way to say goodbye..._

" _No, Aramis," said Porthos. "Don't you die on me!"_

A sudden hand on his shoulder woke Porthos, and his eyes shot open as he looked around, startled. He saw Aramis sitting up in his bed, watching him with a worried expression while Athos stood beside him.

"I was dreamin'," Porthos said. He scrubbed his hands over his eyes and shook his head.

"I won't ask what about," Aramis answered. "Since it was obvious."

Porthos sighed before putting his hands down and looking at him. "I'm fine. It was a dream and you're alive. Don't worry about me." He stood up and walked the two steps to the bed before taking hold of Aramis and making him lie down again. "Go back to sleep."

Aramis gave him a slight smile, knowing that Porthos was burying his feelings for _his_ sake. The only thing to do was to go along with it, to avoid getting Porthos more upset than he was already.

Porthos sat down in his chair and watched his friend fall back to sleep. The noisy breathing was oddly soothing, in a way, for it assured him that Aramis _was_ still breathing, and it lulled Porthos back to sleep himself.

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The next morning, Aramis woke to find his breathing unhindered and he wanted to get up and have breakfast with the rest of the garrison. Athos and Porthos wanted to keep him in bed and tried to change his mind.

"You can't possibly feel fine after what happened yesterday," Porthos argued.

"But I am," Aramis told him. "My breathing is normal."

"You look tired," said Athos.

"So do _you_ ," said Aramis.

Athos couldn't argue that; both he and Porthos hadn't slept easily when they weren't watching over Aramis.

"But _we_ didn't almost suffocate yesterday!" Porthos told him.

"My dear friends," Aramis said, understanding their concern. "I feel well enough to be out of bed. I just want to have a normal day and forget what happened."

They couldn't blame him for that, and let him get up.

The rest of the musketeers were relieved to see him, but no one as much as Serge, who had tears in his eyes again as he served their breakfast.

Aramis stood from his seat and gave the old soldier a hug. "Trouble yourself no longer," he said. "I'm fine and the incident is behind us."

Serge hugged him back tightly. "I'll try," he said.

Aramis patted him on the back before pulling away and looking at the food. "I'm starving," he said.

Serge smiled, which had been Aramis' goal. "Eat up, there's more where that came from!"

Aramis chuckled and sat down.

Treville didn't let Aramis participate in any duties, so Porthos retrieved a pile of pistols from the armory and put them on the table, and they left Aramis contentedly cleaning them as they once against began to train the recruits.

Porthos and Athos both couldn't help but remember what had happened yesterday at nearly the exact same time, and turned to look at the table.

Treville noticed and followed their gaze, spotting Aramis sitting on the bench leaning against the post at his back. His boots were up on the table crossed at the ankles as he fiddled with the pistol on his lap, and a chill shot down Treville's spine at the thought that the young musketeer had nearly died the day before.

Aramis knew that they were watching him but he pretended to be unaware, trying to look healthy and happy as he cleaned the pistol. The incident had shaken him terribly but he'd decided to show strength to his friends out of sympathy for their own experience, especially Porthos.

Suddenly, the sound of swordplay filled the air and Aramis looked up to watch his fellow musketeers train the recruits. It was the same thing he'd been watching the day before when he'd suddenly lost the ability to breathe, and as he returned his attention to the dirty pistol, he thanked God for the second chance at life.

THE END


End file.
